Penelope and the Others by Amy Walton (best e book reader android .TXT) 📕

of keeping with the fresh neatness of the other visitors, the bright ribbons in Nurse's cap, and her glistening satin apron. From her battered old bonnet to the grimy little claw in which she held her bread, there was nothing neat or fresh or bright about poor Kettles.

Nurse sat looking on at all this with very mixed feelings. She liked to give the children pleasure, and yet what could be more unsuitable than the close neighbourhood of Kettles? If Mrs Hawthorne or Miss Unity "chanced in," what would they think of finding Pennie and Nancy in such strange company? They would certainly blame Nurse for allowing it, and quite rightly too--even if Kettles had been a neat clean little girl it would not be "the thing;" but as it was, nothing could have been more unlucky than her appearance just at that time.

While these thoughts passed through Nurse's mind and completely spoilt any enjoyment of her tea, Pennie and Nancy cast sidelong glances, full of curiosity and interest, at their visitor. They were too polite to stare openly at her, and went through the form of a conversation with Nurse in order that she might feel quite at her ease. Presently, however, when she had got well on with her meal, to which she applied herself in a keen and business-like manner, Nancy could not forbear asking:

"Where do you live?"

Kettles held the slice away from her mouth just long enough to say, very quickly:

"Anchoranopally," and immediately fastened her teeth into it again.

The children looked at Nurse for an explanation.

"It's the `Anchor and Hope Alley,' she means, my dears, turning out of the High Street just below here."

Pennie nodded seriously. She knew where the Anchor and Hope Alley was, and also that it was called the lowest quarter in Nearminster. She looked at Kettles with greater interest than ever, and longed to make some inquiries about her home and surroundings. This was so evident in her face that poor Nurse's uneasiness increased. If Kettles began to talk she might drop into language and mention details quite usual in Anchor and Hope Alley, but also quite unfit for Pennie and Nancy to hear. What was to be done? Kettles' slice of bread seemed endless, and here was Pennie on the point of speaking to her again. Nurse rushed nervously in with a question, which she repented as soon as she had put it:

"What's your father doing now, Kettles?"

"Drinkin'," answered Kettles at once. "He come home last night, and--"

"There, there, that'll do," said Nurse hastily. "We don't want to hear about that just now. You finish your tea and run home to mother."

And in spite of beseeching looks from the girls, Kettles was shortly afterwards hurried away with her jug of tea-leaves, and Nurse gave a great sigh of relief as the big boots went clumping down the stairs.

"She's far nicer than Mrs Grump," said Nancy when they were left alone with Nurse, "only you don't let her talk half enough. I wanted to ask her lots of things. Is her name really Kettles? and how did you come to know her? and why does she wear such large boots?"

It appeared that Kettles' real name was Keturah, but being, Nurse explained, a hard sort of name to say, it had got changed into Kettles. "Her mother, a decent, hard-working woman, came to the College to scrub and clean sometimes. She was very poor, and had a great many children and a bad husband." Here Nurse shook her head.

"What do you give her tea-leaves for?" asked Pennie.

"Why, my dear, when folks are too poor to buy fresh tea, they're glad enough to get it after it's been once used."

"We've enjoyed ourselves tremendously," said Nancy when, the visit nearly over, she and Pennie were putting on their hats again, "and you'll ask Kettles to see us next time we come, won't you?"

But this Nurse would not promise. It was hard, she said, to refuse any of the dear children anything, and she was aware how little she had to give them, but she knew her duty to herself and Mrs Hawthorne. Kettles must not be asked. "To think," she concluded, "of you two young ladies sitting down to table with people out of Anchor and Hope Alley!"

"We always have tea with the children at the school feasts at home," said Nancy.

"That's quite different, my dear, in your dear papa's own parish," said Nurse.

"Are they wicked people in Anchor and Hope Alley?" asked Pennie. "Is Kettles wicked?"

"Poor little soul, no, I wouldn't say that," said Nurse. "She's a great help to her mother and does her best. But she sees things and hears things that you oughtn't to know anything about, and so she's not fit company for such as you. And now it's time to go to the gate."

As they passed Anchor and Hope Alley on their way to Miss Unity's house in the Close Pennie stretched her neck to see as far down it as she could.

"How dark and narrow it is! Fancy living there!" she said. "Don't you wonder which is Kettles' house?"

"Shouldn't you like to know," said Nancy, "what it was that her father did when he came home that night? I do so wish Nurse hadn't stopped her."

"What a nice little funny face she had!" said Pennie thoughtfully, "such bright eyes! If it was washed clean, and her hair brushed back smooth, and she had white stockings and a print frock, how do you suppose she'd look?"

"Not half so nice," said Nancy at once, "all neat and proper, just like one of the school-children at Easney."

And indeed it was her look of wildness that made Kettles attractive to Pennie and Nancy, used to the trim propriety of well-cared-for village children, who curtsied when you spoke to them, and always said "Miss." There was a freedom in the glance of Kettles' eye and a perfect carelessness of good manners in her bearing which was as interesting as it was new.

"She's the sort of little girl who lives in a caravan and sells brushes and brooms," continued Pennie as the carriage stopped at Miss Unity's door.

Mrs Hawthorne was accustomed sometimes to read to herself during her frequent drives between Easney and Nearminster, and to-day, when the children saw that she had her book with her, they went on talking very low so as not to disturb her. The conversation was entirely about Kettles, and the subject proved so engrossing that Pennie quite forgot all her late vexations and was perfectly amiable and pleasant. It was indeed long since she and Nancy had had such a comfortable talk together, and agreed so fully in their interests. As they jogged steadily home along the well-known road, new fancies as to the details of Kettles' life and surroundings constantly occurred to them; there was even a certain pleasure in heightening all the miseries which they felt sure she had to bear.

"In the winter," said Nancy, "she has chilblains on her feet--broken ones." Pennie shuddered. She knew what chilblains were.

"They must hurt her dreadfully," she said, "in those great, thick boots."

"And no stockings," added Nancy relentlessly.

"Oh, Nancy!" said Pennie.

She felt almost as sorry as if Nancy were telling her positive facts.

"Wouldn't it be a good thing to get one of those thick grey pairs of stockings for her out of the shop at Easney," said Nancy after a short silence, "and a pair of boots to fit?"

"I've got no money," replied Pennie shortly.

"Well, no more have I now," said Nancy; "but we could save some. You'd much better give up that stupid mandarin thing. You don't even know whether Miss Unity would like it."

Now Pennie was at heart very much attracted by the idea of supplying Kettles with comfortable stockings and boots. It was a splendid idea, but it had one drawback--it was not her own. Her own plan had been cast aside and rejected, and she could not meekly fall in with this new one of Nancy's, however good it might be. Pennie was a kind-hearted little girl, and always ready to help others, but she liked to do it in her own way. She was fond of leading, advising, and controlling; but when it came to following counsel and taking advice herself she did not find it pleasant. Therefore, because the new mandarin was an idea of her own she was still determined to carry it through, though, in truth, she had almost lost sight of her first wish--to give Miss Unity pleasure.

So now she made no answer, and Nancy, looking eagerly at her, saw a little troubled frown instead of a face covered with smiles.

"You'll never get enough to buy it alone," she continued. "And just think how Kettles would like new boots and stockings!"

As she spoke they turned in at the Vicarage gate, and saw just in front of them a figure stepping jauntily up the drive.

"Oh!" cried Nancy. "Mother! Pennie! Look! Phere's Miss Barnicroft going to call."

Mrs Hawthorne roused herself at once from her book, for no one could look forward with indifference to a visit from Miss Barnicroft.


CHAPTER FIVE.

MISS BARNICROFT'S MONEY.

Not very far from the Roman camp Rumborough Common ended in a rough rutty road, or rather lane, and about half-way down this stood a small white cottage with a thatched roof. It was an ordinary labourer's cottage with the usual patch of garden, just like scores of others round about; but it possessed a strange and peculiar interest of its own, for it was not an ordinary labourer who lived there, it was Miss Barnicroft, with two dogs and a goat.

Now Miss Barnicroft was not in the least like other people, and the children considered her by far the most interesting object to be seen near Easney, so that they never passed her lonely dwelling without trying to get a glimpse of her, or at least of her animals. They were careful, however, only to take side glances, and to look very grave if they did happen to see her, for they had been taught to regard her with respect, and on no account to smile at anything odd in her appearance or behaviour. "Poor Miss Barnicroft" she was generally called, though Andrew spoke less politely of her as the "daft lady."

In their walks with Miss Grey it was with a thrill of pleasure that they sometimes saw the well-known flighty figure approaching, for there was always something worth looking at in Miss Barnicroft. Her garments were never twice alike, so that she seemed a fresh person every time. Sometimes she draped herself in flowing black robes, with a veil tied closely over her head and round her face. At others she wore a high-crowned hat decked with gay ribbons, a short skirt, and yellow satin boots. There was endless variety in her array, but however fantastic it might be, she preserved through it all a certain air of dignity and distinction which was most impressive.

Her face, too, was delicate in feature and refined in expression. Her short upper lip had a haughty curl,